One Toe Over the Line
by pennylayne
Summary: Third in the A Very Thin Line series. Further chronicles of the adventures of Specs and Dutchy, this time from Dutchy's point of view. Slash. Sputchy.
1. Fit as a Fiddle

I hop off the subway, whistling to myself as I lug my camera bag over my shoulder. I've just finished photographing what feels like my millionth celebrity wedding, and I'm more than ready to get home. I check my watch as I take the stairs to street-level – it's eight-thirty. Specs should just be closing up the gallery right about now.

Specs, or Daniel to anyone who didn't go to high school with us, is... well, there are so many terms for what he is, I don't even know which one to use. Boyfriend, lover, life partner, other half, love of my life, soul mate... take your pick. Anyway, he's who I come home to after a long, hard day of taking pictures. We've been together for about twelve years now, and, thanks to him, not a second of it has been boring.

The thought of him makes me smile even as I make my way through the sea of homeless people and foul-smelling hot dog vendors to get home. I think tonight I want to do something extra special for Specs. I stop by a flower vendor just as he's closing up for the night and buy a bunch of red and white carnations.

Today's job has put ideas in my head.

_Soon the church bells will be ringin', and I'll march with Ma and Pa! Oh, how the church bells will be ringin', with a hey-nonny-nonny and a ha-cha-cha!_

I'm still whistling as I walk up to our building.

"Good evening, Mr. Visser," the doorman says with a grin. "Well, aren't we in a good mood this evening?"

I grin back. "Oh, Charlie, you have _no_ idea."

As I stroll into the lobby, my cell phone rings. It's Specs.

"Where are you?" He doesn't even wait for me to actually answer the phone, he just starts talking as soon as I pick up.

"I'm at the laundromat," I reply.

Specs groans. "Oh, God. We're doomed."

I laugh. "Relax. I'm in the lobby, I'll be up in just a second. You need something?"

"Just wondering if you've had dinner yet."

"Nope. People aren't real big on feeding the photographer." I step into the elevator and press the button for my floor. "And I'm starving."

"Well, that's a good thing, because I just ordered Chinese."

"Sounds good. Okay, I'm almost to our floor, so I'll see you in a second."

"Okay."

"Specs?" I push my hair out of my face. I've been doing that for years and have never thought to get a different haircut.

"Yeah, Dutch."

"I love you."

Specs chuckles. "I love you, too."

I step off the elevator and nearly skip down the hallway to my apartment. I open the door and grin. "Luuuucy, I'm hoooome!"

Specs comes out of his office, rolling his eyes. "You're so weird." He shakes his head and kisses me. "What's with the flowers?"

I thrust them out to him. "They're for you."

He smiles and takes them. "Um, thanks. Why?"

I grin. "Why not?" He laughs and takes the flowers into the kitchen and I follow. "So, how were things at the gallery today?"

Specs shrugs. "They were pretty good. Had a couple arts reporters from the _Times_ come in and snoop around a little bit. We're getting pretty popular," he says, grinning with pride.

Specs and I own an art gallery together called the Visberg. We opened it up a couple of months ago and so far, it's doing really well. We haven't had a bad review to date. Specs runs it when he's not working on his comic book (which is wildly successful, even though he doesn't like to talk about it) and I run it when I'm not out doing my photography, and there are even a few rare but sweet occasions when we get to run the gallery together.

All in all, it was a pretty good investment.

"How was the wedding?" Specs digs a vase out from under the sink and puts the flowers in it.

"It was okay. You know, lots of creepy straight people."

He laughs. "Funny, you were once one of those creepy straight people."

I wrinkle my nose. "I try to put the past behind me, thanks."

Specs laughs again and the door buzzes. He walks to the entryway and tells the delivery guy to come on up. In just a couple minutes, our dinner arrives and we settle down for a nice, quiet meal.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Specs likes to read before he goes to sleep. Tonight it's some book on baseball. I don't know why he reads these things... they all seem so boring to me. I lay beside him, staring up at the ceiling and listening to him rhythmically turn the pages.

After several minutes, I turn onto my side. "Specs?"

"Hmm," he doesn't even look up from his book.

"Will you marry me?"

This makes him drop the book entirely. "What?"

"Will you marry me?" I repeat.

He blinks at me. "Dutchy, we can't get married."

"So? We'll have a commitment ceremony or whatever and it'll be just as good. To you and me, we'll be married."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"I'm serious." I sit up, still looking at him. "I love you and you love me. There's no reason why we shouldn't do this."

He sits and stares at me for a couple minutes, and I can almost see the little wheels turning around in his head.

"Come on," I say. "You know my logic is indisputable."

Specs laughs a little bit, then nods. "Okay," he says, and he kisses me.


	2. Euphemisms Galore!

It's bright and sunny and beautiful today. Okay, so that's probably the single most homosexual thing I've _ever_ said, so it'd be much appreciated if you'd just forget I said it. Anyway, point is, I'm happy as a clam today.

Someday soon, in some aspect, I will be a married man.

We just need to set a date... and a time... and a place... and find someone to perform the ceremony, order flowers, food, invite people get tuxedos, make reservations for a honeymoon... hire a decent photographer.

Huh. This is more work than I thought it would be. Seems like you should be able to "pop the question," as they say, and have it just, y'know, happen. But I guess that would just be too convenient.

"So, um, where do you want to do it?" I'm sitting across the table from Specs, who's reading over reviews for the most recent installment of his comic as we eat breakfast.

"In the bedroom, like we always do," he says without looking up.

I roll my eyes and fling a forkful of scrambled eggs at him. "Dumbass. I mean the ceremony."

He laughs and sets down the newspaper, wiping egg off of his cheek. "Oh, I don't know." He shrugs. "Someplace romantic, but not all frilly and girlie."

I laugh. "Yes, because we are _manly_ men." I flex my biceps and then take a bite of my unflung eggs. "But anyway... you know any places available?"

"Well, we have to set a date first. When do you want to do it?"

I grin mischievously. "All day, every day." I duck as he balls up the classifieds page and throws it at me. "Hey, if you can, I can." He tries not to smile and generally fails. "But seriously... I don't want to wait too long."

"Hmm... a short engagement. You're not knocked up, are you?"

I roll my eyes and drop my head to the table.

"Okay, okay. How about maybe a month and a half? That'll give us time to get things together, invite people, have them R.S.V.P. Say, third week in October?"

I lift my head a little. "What day?"

Specs gets up and checks the calendar. "Twenty-first's a Saturday."

I smile and nod. "Sounds good."

"We just need to find a place and it'll all be cake from there."

Leaning back in my chair, I rack my brain for ideas. After a couple minutes, a light bulb pops up over my head. Or at least it would have if this were a cartoon. "Hey, how about the gallery?"

Specs leans against the table beside me. "The gallery?"

"Well, yeah... I mean, it's ours, so it's not like it's going to be booked, and it means something to the both of us. There's enough room for everybody to fit, and we could even hold the reception there if we want, and why are you looking at me like that?"

Specs is smiling at me in this weird, goofy way that I rarely see. He cups my chin in his hand and leans down. "The gallery is a great idea," he says, pressing his lips to mine.

I grin. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

I take his hand from my face and hold it. "Now, you mentioned something about cake earlier."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

We've set a date and a place, but things aren't getting any easier, which means only one thing: Specs is a dirty, rotten liar. Neither of us can decide on flowers – which, stereotypically, shouldn't be a problem, being gay men, but it really isn't our thing.

The flowers are the least of our worries, though. The hardest part is the guest list.

"So we've got Blink and Mush, Pie, Spot, Jack and Dave, Skittery and Oscar, Crutchy, Jake, Snoddy, Bumlets, and my folks, what about your folks?"

I look down at the floor. "I haven't exactly told my parents yet."

Specs rolls his eyes behind his glasses. "Dutch, they've had twelve years to get used to the idea that you..."

"That's not it. I just haven't told them."

"But you _will_ tell them, right?"

"Yeah." I nod. "So, who else?"

Specs shrugs. "I don't know. I mean, we've got pretty much gotten everybody. But... it kinda feels like we're missing somebody."

"Say Sarah Jacobs and I will personally castrate you with rusty scissors."

He laughs. "Love you too, Lorena." He taps his pen against his bottom lip. "No, it feels like we're missing someone... _important_."

I lean over and look at the list. "Yeah... like... Racetrack. Hey, where the hell _is_ Racetrack, anyway?"

"I don't know. Last I heard, he was married to that Caroline chick, and that was, like, a month after graduation."

I nod. "Tell you what. You find a florist and I'll track down our dear Mr. Higgins."

"Oh, sure," he says, rolling his eyes at me. "You get the _easy_ job."


	3. Sweetness

"'Lo?" A gruff voice answers the phone.

I clear my throat. "Um, hi, is Anthony there?"

"Who?"

"Anthony. Or Tony."

The voice coughs and I detect the faintest hint of emphysema. "No. No Tony here." _Click_.

I sigh and replace the phone in the cradle. I've called every Higgins in the book and that was the last one, and there's no Racetrack. Whatever. I'll check the alumni association at Pulitzer's later.

Right now, I have things to do.

Rising from the couch, I straighten my flannel pajama pants and pad barefooted into the office, where Specs is diligently drawing the next installment of his comic. I stand in the doorway a moment, examining the way he's bent over his desk, his hair falling in his face and his glasses sliding down his nose. He's in The Zone, which means I am on The Prowl.

He doesn't hear me come in as I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his shoulders. He jumps, and then relaxes as I plant kisses along his jaw and neck.

"Don't you have some work to do or something?" He sets his pencil down and tilts his head to the side a little, which, for some reason, tells me that he doesn't _really_ want me to go to work.

"No weddings, no parties, nothing going on in the city, and it's Sunday. Gallery's closed." I nip at that little swell of muscle between his shoulder and his collarbone, pushing aside the collar of his T-shirt to plant more kisses.

"Well, don't you have a wedding of your own to plan?"

I nuzzle his neck and spin his chair around. "I'm working on it."

He chuckles. "Yeah, I can see you're just working your poor hands to the bone."

"Hey, I'm practicing for the honeymoon."

Specs laughs and puts his hand on the back of my head, bringing my lips to his. "By all means," he mumbles against my mouth, "don't let me interrupt your work."

I grin and take his hand, leading him through the office door and down the hallway to our bedroom. I hastily yank his shirt over his head and get to work on undoing his pants and belt.

"Are we in a hurry today?" He smirks at me.

I kiss him and smile. "Not so much with the talking, Specs."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

I love the way our bodies fit together. Specs has fallen asleep and I'm curled against him, bare chest to bare back. His skin is warm and his breath is even, his stomach moving in and out against my arm. I lift my head a little and look him over, smiling.

Over the past twelve years, I've gotten to know every last inch of his body. Nothing is new to either of us when it comes to that. And yet he never ceases to amaze me, never fails to take my breath away at the most random moments. Like right now. Everything is the same it was when we were sixteen, but at the same time, it's all so very different.

"Stop staring at me, Dutch."

"What?"

Specs adjusts his head on the pillow without opening his eyes. "You're staring at me. Stop it."

I chuckle and press my lips to the back of his shoulder. "Sorry." I lay my head back down and draw him closer against my chest, sighing contentedly.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"I'm sorry, you're _what_?"

"I'm getting married."

There's silence for a few moments on the other end of the line. I bite my lip. "Why am I afraid to ask to whom?"

"I don't know, Dad, why are you?"

My father sighs, and I can imagine he's pinching the bridge of his nose like he always does when he thinks about my life. "Is this one of those gay-marriage things that people go off about every couple of years?"

I smirk to myself, but try not to let it show in my voice. "Yeah, Dad, it's one of those."

He goes silent, and I know he's thinking. I figure he's probably leaning his head back in his expensive leather armchair, closing his eyes to the view of Central Park out his living room window, and thinking. "Johannes," he says, "I just don't know what to make of you sometimes."

"Feeling's mutual, Pop." I lay back on the couch and stare up at the ceiling. "So, look, I know you'll be uncomfortable and all that, and I know you hate my lifestyle. But I love him, Dad, and we're getting married... or as close as we can get to it, anyway. And it'd mean a lot to the both of us if you and Mom would come."

There's that silence on his end again. I don't know if he's considering my invitation, or if he's finally cracked and popped a cyanide capsule. I hear him sigh and smirk, knowing that the latter is at least out of the question. He takes a breath and I think he's going to say something, but it's at least thirty seconds before he does. "When is it?"

I grin. "October twenty-first. Three o'clock. At the gallery. You remember how to get there?"

"I believe so." I hear him scribbling down the information. "And is this a formal affair?"

"Well, no, we were thinking maybe we'd go for a nudist theme."

"You _what_?"

I laugh. "Kidding, Dad. Don't have a heart attack or anything. I can't get a wedding gift out of you if you keel over." He chuckles, even if he's trying to hide it. "Yes, it's formal."

"Alright." He pauses, like he's going to say something important, but instead says, "Well, I should be going. I have a lunch meeting."

"Okay." I sit up, stretch a little. "I'll see you on the twenty-first, Dad."

"Yes, you will. Goodbye, Johannes."

I start to say goodbye, then stop. "Dad."

"Yes?"

"Um. Love you."

"I love you too, Johannes."


	4. A Rose is a Rose is a Rose

Specs is on the phone with the eight-thousandth florist of the day. He seems to like this guy, because they're discussing flowers now, which he hasn't done with any of the other florists so far.

"Um, I'm thinking blue and white."

I pipe up from the kitchen. "Red, not blue!"

He goes back to chattering with the florist. "Well, I don't know. Maybe roses?"

Poking my head out the kitchen door, I grin at him. "Carnations."

Specs rolls his eyes, sighing. "Yeah, and some kind of accent flower."

"Baby's breath," I say, as I come out and sit down across from him with my sandwich.

He pulls the phone away from his head. "Do you want to do this?"

I smirk. "No, thanks, honey."

"Then would you can it?" I pout a little and then eat my sandwich. Poor guy's stressed out. He continues on with the conversation, then eventually hangs up, setting the phone on the table beside him. "Carnations and baby's breath. Matching boutonnières. Red and white. Delivery's at eleven on the twenty-first, to the gallery. You happy?"

"Yes... are you okay?"

He folds his arms on the table and rests his forehead on them. "I'm just exhausted. This wedding stuff is stressful."

"I know." I pick up the half of my sandwich I've been eating and slide the plate across the table. "Hungry?"

"Thanks." He picks up the sandwich and takes a bite. "So, any luck in finding the elusive Mr. Higgins?"

I shrug. "Tried calling every Higgins in the book, no luck. I still have his number in my yearbook and his mom might still live there..."

Specs shakes his head. "Nope. She moved three, four years ago."

"Oh." I take a drink of my soda and sigh. "Well, I have no idea, then. I figure I'll check with the alumni association up at J.P.'s tomorrow or the next day."

"Well, he never comes to the reunions."

"That doesn't mean they don't send him invitations."

"Good point." Specs nods and finishes his half of the sandwich. "So, what do you want to do tonight?"

I lean back in my chair and shrug. "How about we just stay in, watch a movie, maybe order some pizza?"

Specs grins. "Thanks."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Joseph Pulitzer Academy for Artistically Gifted Youth Alumni Association."

"Hi, this is Johannes Visser, class of oh-six," I say into the phone, feeling like the biggest loser on the planet for having worded it like that.

"Hi, what can I do for you?"

"Um, I'm looking for someone in my class, I'd like to invite him to my wedding and he appears to have dropped off the face of the planet."

The woman on the other end laughs. "Alright, do you have a name?"

"Anthony Higgins."

She laughs again. "Tony? You're looking for Tony?"

I blink. "Um, yeah." Scratching my head, I sit down on the couch and open up my address book. "Can you give me his address?"

"I can. I'd put you through to him right now, but he's in class."

"I'm sorry, he's what?" I cock an eyebrow at no one in particular. "Has it taken him this long to graduate?"

"Tony's our drama teacher here."

I laugh out loud. "You're shitting me."

"'Fraid not." She chuckles, then reads off the address to me. I write it down. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"No, I think that'll do it. Thanks."

"No problem, and congratulations on your wedding."

"Thank you," I say, and then I say goodbye and hang up.

"Hey Specs," I call over my shoulder. "You'll never believe this!"


	5. Cold Feet

The invitations have been sent out. The flowers have been ordered. We've picked out a caterer and a cake, and we've reserved our tuxes. The gallery is booked for the ceremony and we've got someone to perform it, one of the artists we feature often at the gallery, and we've hired a photographer who's a close friend of mine. We've made hotel and plane reservations for a honeymoon in Paris. Everyone has R.S.V.P.'d, even Racetrack, who, it turns out, really _is_ a teacher at J.P.'s now.

Everything is in order and the ceremony is three days away.

So why am I so nervous?

It's not like I'm making a big, sudden commitment, not like I'm making promises I can't or don't intend to keep.

But all I can think about is, what if I disappoint him? What if this isn't everything he's always wanted, isn't the perfect wedding? What if something happens, like with the food or the flowers, or what if we miss our flight?

I haven't slept for more than maybe ten hours at the most in the past three or four days because of this. And laying here in bed, with Specs pressed close up against me, constantly reminding me that it's coming up, isn't really helping much.

I reach over and grab my glasses off of the nightstand, then quietly get out of bed, trying my hardest not to wake Specs, and I head into the kitchen, flipping on the light. The clock on the microwave reads one-thirty in the morning. Jesus Christ. I sigh and open the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and hoisting myself up onto the counter.

It's cold in the kitchen, especially since I'm sitting right next to the window. I figure I should maybe put a shirt on, but the bedroom is so far away and it's just not worth it. I open my bottle of water and drink.

And then the thoughts come.

I've only really screwed up with Specs once in my life, and while that ended up favorably, it was still the worst time of my life and I really don't care to repeat it. I know that even if this turns into the wedding from hell, he'll still love me, but I still want everything to be absolutely perfect. I want everything to be at a higher standard than it usually is, from my looks to the food to the music, all for him. I want this to be the thing that he'll look back on with the biggest smile. Out of all his memories, I want this one to be above all the rest.

Is that wrong?

"Dutch?" Specs shuffles into the kitchen, squinting at the overhead light. "What're you doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep."

He yawns. "What time is it?"

"Quarter to two." I sigh and take another drink of my water.

"So why can't you sleep?" Specs positions himself between my legs and wraps his arms around my waist.

"Dunno. Just can't, I guess."

He smiles a little. "Don't bullshit me, Dutchy." He rubs my back a little bit and looks me in the eye. "What's going on?"

I bury my head in his shoulder and sigh. "I'm nervous."

He smiles and kisses my temple. "Why?"

I sit up and look at him, then go on to explain everything. When I'm done, Specs just smiles.

"What?"

He chuckles. "You're so cute." Cupping my face in his hands, he kisses my forehead and then presses his own head to it. "Look, Dutchy, everything'll turn out just fine. This ceremony could all go to hell in a hand basket, be the worst wedding ever, the gallery could burn down, but I'd still love you. Okay?"

I nod. "Okay."

He kisses me and then he takes my hands. "Now let's get back to bed. We oughta put a blanket over your feet if they're so cold."

I roll my eyes at him and hop off of the counter. "Come on, smart-ass."


	6. Promises

Saturday morning comes far too soon for my liking. I'm out of bed as soon as the alarm goes off, and in the shower before Specs can even open his eyes. We both agreed that we would just take our tuxedos to the gallery with us and get dressed there so neither of us would see the other beforehand, so I pull on jeans and a T-shirt and get to work on taming my hair.

There's a knock on the bathroom door. "Dutchy, I have to take a shower."

I open it and smile at him. "Feel free to get naked and wet in my presence."

Specs rolls his eyes and strips down, hopping into the shower. "You left me hot water. I'm impressed."

"Consider it a wedding gift." I grin and finish up my hair. "Hey, are you hungry?"

"Um, sure."

"What do you want for breakfast?"

He opens the shower curtain a little, shampoo lathered in his hair. "What?"

"What do you want for breakfast?" I run a comb through my hair one last time and inspect my face. I don't need to shave, and this is a good thing. The way my hands are shaking I just might kill myself.

"Whatever you're having's fine."

"So, ham steak and bacon it is." I grin and Specs flings water at me. "I'll just go make whatever we've got."

I head into the kitchen, humming.

Despite my nerves, today is going to be a good day. I can tell.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

We get to the gallery at about ten minutes after ten, and the decorators are waiting outside impatiently. We let them in and they wrap things up, and the florist comes right on time to set up the flowers.

I have to say, the gallery has never looked better.

I stand at the front of it while Specs is getting dressed, just looking. There are flowers everywhere, red and white silk draped over the chairs. There's a red runner going up the aisle, and the lights have been changed to softer whites and pinkish bulbs. It's beautiful.

The Weinbergs arrive around two, and my parents follow just a few minutes afterward. Mr. and Mrs. Weinberg head into the back with Specs, and my parents follow me to another room to help me with my tuxedo.

"Johannes," my mother says, holding up my jacket for me, "you look so handsome. Definitely fit for a wedding."

I grin as she kisses me on the cheek, and slide a look at my father. He doesn't think I can see him, so he's looking on with a smile of what I think is actually pride.

My mother smooths the sleeves and straightens my tie, then steps back to look at me. "I think you're ready." She smiles and strokes my hair, tears glistening in her eyes. "I can't believe you're getting married." She wipes her eyes with a handkerchief and shakes her head. "I promised myself I wouldn't cry."

"Aww, Mom." I wrap my arms around her and lay my cheek on top of her head. "It's not like I'm leaving you or anything. It's not even like a _wedding_ wedding."

"Sure it is," my father says, clearing his throat. "I mean, it is to you, anyway, isn't it?"

I smile at him and nod. "Yeah."

"And don't think this gets you out of giving me grandchildren," my mom chimes in. "I still want one, at the very least." I laugh and hug her again.

My father looks at his watch and nods. "Well, son, are you ready to get out there?"

I clear my throat and nod, taking my mother's arm and heading out the door.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The room is packed. I see the tops of the heads of my friends from high school, and several of the artists Specs and I have befriended over the past few years, but above all of them, I see Specs, standing up front and grinning at me.

My mother smiles and kisses my cheek as I walk her to her seat, and I grin as I step forward to make my promises.


End file.
